The Watcher
by miasmatik
Summary: Hannibal hears a strange noise in the woods and takes on a new patient. (Hannibal S1 Horror AU)
1. The First Visit

**A** / **N: The first season of Hannibal did such a great job with subtle tension and horror, so I've tried my hand here at recreating some of that atmosphere...only with things somewhat slanted. ;)**

 **Warnings for graphic imagery and violence.**

* * *

He hears it first off an abandoned road in Wolf Trap.

Hannibal pauses in loading the body of John Dunham into his Bentley. The headlights of the car half-driven off the road behind him, door askew and missing its owner, blind him from searching the darkened Virginia woods for a sign of its source.

He waits, but the howl has no encore, no echo. The forest is silent aside from the shifting of dead branches in the wind. There's an undercurrent of electricity in the air, like it might rain, but the sky is clear.

Hannibal hefts the ill-mannered lawyer into the trunk and shuts it. He has much to do, and little concern to pay over a wolf roaming the backwoods in the middle of the night. Adjusting his gloves and casting one last glance beyond the reach of his shadow, Hannibal considers seasonal recipes for heart.

* * *

Hannibal sends his 6:30 appointment off with a polite smile and an agreement to resume their discussion at the same time next week. Once Mrs. Marlow has thanked him with teary eyes and shut the door behind herself, he grimaces. He pulls the handkerchief from his front pocket and flicks the fabric open, eyeing the crumpled tissues on the side table. He deposits them in the trashcan beneath his desk and refolds the fabric, mindful to avoid touching the side reserved for cleaning up after his particularly weepy patients.

Hannibal places the linen square next to his appointment book and opens it to the current date. One final meeting for the day, later than he would usually book time with a client, but the man he had spoken with over the phone this morning had emphasized urgency. It was a plea he heard often given his popularity among Baltimore's elite, but he had felt compelled to agree to this request.

The voice had been quiet, inelegant in phrasing and palpably uncomfortable in responding to even the most basic questions Hannibal posed to all prospective patients. He had hesitated to provide a full name and avoided answering just why it was so important he see Hannibal, of all psychiatrists, as soon as possible. But it had been the home address the man provided, more than anything, that caught Hannibal's attention and kept it.

Wolf Trap, Virginia.

It was the day after a Mr. John Dunham had been reported missing by local Virginia police. His body had been found, devoid of brain and heart, in a Baltimore district courthouse last night.

Hannibal traces the name of his 7:30 appointment and checks the Rolex on his wrist.

7:28.

He straightens his tie, smooths the line of his suit, and walks to the door. When he turns the handle, it opens to the side profile of a man in the middle of his waiting room.

"Mr. Graham?"

The man turns from studying _The Raft of the Medusa_ , smiles with more self-assurance than Hannibal was expecting, and adjusts the glasses across the bridge of his nose.

"Hello, Dr. Lecter."

"Please," Hannibal steps aside, returns the smile. "Come in."

Will walks into Hannibal's office with an even gait, head held high to take in the vastness of the space. He's dressed in a flannel button-down a size too large for him and his hair is curled in disarray, but Hannibal is instantly on alert. The visual appearance of the man before him is more or less what he'd anticipated; the countenance is not.

"Interesting choice of décor," Will remarks. He places his coat across the back of the patient chair and gravitates towards the bookshelves lining the room.

"I have been told it is as peculiar as it is striking," Hannibal replies. He unbuttons his suit jacket and takes a seat, hoping it will compel the other man to do the same. Will ignores the gesture entirely.

"The painting in the waiting room," Will continues, running his eyes over the spines of Hannibal's collection. "Fairly controversial at the time. Géricault was both condemned and praised for depicting death so grotesquely. Though I think he still failed to capture the full horror of the story - what the survivors did to last until rescue."

Hannibal's jaw tightens. He measures his next words carefully, settles his face into one of disinterest.

"Cannibalism, you mean."

Will glances over at him, one hand paused over a 19th century copy of _The Iliad_. He gives Hannibal a lopsided grin before ducking his head.

"I'm sorry, I'm being rude."

Will withdraws from the text and pushes both hands into his pockets. He turns from the books with a slight hunch of his shoulders and walks back towards the center of the room.

"This is your hour," Hannibal clasps his hands over folded knees, watches Will sink into the chair opposite him. "We can spend it however you like. Though I doubt you're here to discuss the notable works of French Romanticism."

Will shifts back into his seat and spares one last look around the office before meeting Hannibal's eyes.

"Why are you here, Mr. Graham?"

"Will."

Hannibal tilts his head.

"Will is fine."

The brusqueness grates on him, but it reminds Hannibal of the awkward man he had spoken to over the phone. Nothing else about the man before him reminds him of the voice that had pleaded to see him as soon as possible, that refused to explain why.

"Why are you here, Will?"

Will scratches behind his ear and frowns.

"I've been seeing things."

Hannibal waits for him to continue, but Will remains quiet. He stares at the rug beneath their feet.

"Things?" Hannibal prompts, and watches as Will swallows, looks up.

"Hallucinations."

When no further information follows, Hannibal unclasps his hands. He runs a thumb under his bottom lip and glances towards the fireplace.

"Visual hallucinations can be symptomatic of a variety of conditions."

"They're not just visual."

Will is staring at him when his eyes swivel back. He's leaned forward with elbows on his knees and perched on the edge of his seat, a strange anticipatory quality to the lines of his body. Predatory, Hannibal's mind supplies.

"I hear them sometimes. Like an animal in the chimney, but when I look there's nothing there. Or a howl in the woods outside my house that my dogs don't even react to, when just the sound of footsteps on the porch usually sets them off."

Will blinks. Hannibal doesn't.

"Have you ever experienced anything like that, doctor?"

Hannibal shifts the slightest bit forward, raises his eyebrows.

"I can't say that I have."

Will watches him a moment longer, then nods. He takes his glasses off and rubs the space between his eyebrows.

"It started happening when I'd try to fall asleep. I would feel something watching me, waiting for me to lose consciousness. And I'd open my eyes again and sometimes there was nothing, but sometimes I'd see it there. Just a dark mass. Right outside my bedroom door. I thought it was one of my dogs at first."

Will shifts his palm down, across his stubble. He's still looking at Hannibal but his eyes are far away. Hannibal considers this, considers the worn tone of the other man's voice, but something still feels off.

"Hypnagogic hallucinations, those that appear at the onset of sleep, can have both visual and auditory components. They're more common in narcoleptics but can occur as a result of long-term sleep deprivation as well. Sometimes the brain retains these strange visions or noises and experiences them in waking hours. Do you have a history of sleep disorders, Will?"

The corner of the younger man's mouth tics up.

"This feels like something else."

"What does it feel like?"

Hannibal receives no answer. He allows the silence, tracks as the minutes tick by on his watch, but Will has nothing left to supply. He changes tactics.

"Why are you really here, Will?"

Hannibal leans the rest of the way forward, mirrors Will's posture with his own. His hackles are raised but he is not without curiosity.

"Why was it so important to see me?"

Will's smile grows and his vision refocuses. There's a secret in his eyes, but he does not share it.

* * *

When Will has left, Hannibal returns to the desk and retrieves his tablet from the top right drawer. In the minute it takes to turn on, he stares at the _W. Graham_ written within his leather appointment book. The exercise, much like the man himself, answers none of his questions.

Hannibal opens a new tab and types the name in, narrowing his search to the Chesapeake Bay area. No notable news on any Will or William Graham is forthcoming, and a similar image search brings up no links to social media accounts matching the face of the man who'd just sat in his office for an hour and spoke for less than half it. It's not entirely surprising, given Will's apparent solitary tendencies, but Hannibal would have to be blind to ignore the coincidences. Or his instincts.

He instead flips the notebook to the patient address list and scans down to the newest addition. He types the text into a satellite search engine and stares at the result, unsurprised but discomfited all the same.

An empty property.

 _A howl in the woods outside my house._

 _Have you ever experienced something like that, doctor?_

Will had turned around on his way out, as if sensing Hannibal's internal conflict about letting him leave the office at all, and thanked the doctor for his time.

Hannibal sneers, unthinkingly thumbs over the scalpel beside his drawing pencils. He does not appreciate being toyed with.


	2. The Second Visit

Will does not make a follow-up appointment, and he does not call back.

His number is out of service.

News of the Chesapeake Ripper's latest murder has reached the mainstream press and it swamps the news circuit over the next few days. One of Hannibal's more paranoid patients voices concerns about seeing a strange man following him, perhaps the Ripper himself, but Hannibal cannot take his usual secret pleasure in playing the bogeyman lurking outside locked doors.

He wishes he had not let Will Graham live.

* * *

Four days after his appointment with Will, Hannibal stays at his office later than usual. Although it always proves a pleasure, his consulting work for the FBI leaves him with more paperwork than he can conceivably finish between daytime appointments. The amount always increases in the aftermath of a new Ripper kill.

His only regret is delaying dinner.

Hannibal is bent over the fireplace, in the middle of twisting off the gas and watching the flames die, when he hears it.

He twists around.

The low growl raises the hairs at the back of his neck, a static charge that shoots down his spine and raises bumps along his arms, but the office is dark and he cannot see anything. The lights have already been flipped off in anticipation of his departure.

Hannibal reaches back and blindly grasps for the handle of the fireplace poker. He draws it from its stand with caution, eyes never leaving the shadowed corners of the room. He can't pinpoint the location of the sound, but when he steps around the edge of the desk and towards the light switch by the door, it intensifies.

He freezes.

The growl rises to a thunderous crescendo, a roar that vibrates throughout the room and leaves Hannibal rooted to the spot. Something not unlike fear flickers to life within him, and the feeling is so foreign, nearly forgotten, that he almost drops his weapon.

Then, as soon as it began, the noise stops altogether. The air is silent once again.

Hannibal lunges for the switch and casts everything back into light. He gasps as his eyes dart around the room, draws in the breath he'd been neglecting to take, and tightens his grip on the poker. He stands with his hand against the wall for another couple moments. Just until his muscles unlock and the adrenaline leaves his body. Then he searches the entirety of the room, from the mezzanine to behind the curtains, and confirms the absence of any reasonable explanation.

He's on edge the whole drive home.

Off-kilter and hyperaware of any sound as he unlocks his front door, floods the foyer with light before stepping into the house.

He undresses and takes a shower just long enough to clean the cold sweat off his body. His appetite is gone, but he heats the oven and warms a plate of leftovers anyways. He eats the last of Mr. Dunham standing at the counter, staring at the darkness outside his kitchen window.

Hannibal climbs into bed at half-past eleven.

He's adjusting the alarm on the bedside table when a flicker of movement registers in his periphery. He turns his head towards the doorframe.

The black mass is waiting there.

It stares back with eyes like golden fire. It makes no sound but he can smell it this time. Decay and wet earth.

 _Sometimes there was nothing, but sometimes I'd see it there._

He blinks, and it's gone.

Hannibal falls asleep with Will Graham on his mind and the scent of death in his nostrils.

* * *

He opens the door to his waiting room at 7:29, a week after Will walked in and back out of it.

Hannibal is unsurprised to find the man standing on the other side.

Will is facing him this time, a smile on his lips.

"Hello again, Dr. Lecter."

Hannibal steps aside. "Please, come in."

"I wasn't sure you'd keep my appointment time."

Hannibal closes the door behind them, locks it. When he turns to face the younger man, it's to find Will climbing the ladder to the mezzanine. His coat is draped across the back of the patient's chair like before, and he's once again engrossed in examining the library.

"You did not make another appointment," Hannibal feels a need clarify. He leans against the edge of the desk and looks up at the man perusing his collection of medieval philosophy. "I was unsure if you intended on continuing therapy with me."

Will steps away from the shelves, leans over the banister. His expression is somewhat bashful.

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that. I wasn't sure either."

"Yet here you are."

"Here I am," Will agrees, wanders back towards the books. Hannibal watches him run his fingers over a couple volumes before selecting one and pulling it from the shelf. He traces the scalpel in the front pocket of his suit pants.

"How long did it take you to collect all these books?"

Hannibal meets the curious look Will throws over his shoulder. He's flipping through the pages of something much older and much more expensive than he probably realizes, but Hannibal doesn't allow his disdain to surface.

He gives the other man a patient look and answers. "I've been collecting them since I established my practice. Some from before, even. I acquired many of the medical texts while still in school."

"What drew you to psychiatry?"

Hannibal pushes off the desk and walks towards his liquor cabinet. He can feel Will's eyes tracking him across the room, but when he chances a glance back, the man is once again absorbed in the text.

"I was a surgeon first. But the appeal of the mind is undeniable."

"Why did you stop being a surgeon?"

Hannibal pulls two tumblers from the shelf. His hand hovers over his usual choice of wine before he considers current company. He selects bourbon instead.

"Would you care for a drink?"

A huff comes from the balcony.

"You drink with your patients?"

"Are you my patient, Will?"

Hannibal pours two fingers in each glass. He re-corks the decanter before turning around.

Will stares at him from above. The overhead lights cast his face into relief but his eyes seem to glimmer even so. He shuts the book in his hands, pushes it back into place, and ambles towards the ladder.

Hannibal takes a glass in each hand and walks to meet him. When both of Will's feet are solidly on the ground floor, Hannibal extends the crystal towards the younger man. Their fingers brush as Will takes the glass and yes, he's real. Not a hallucination.

"Buffalo Trace Kentucky Bourbon. I presumed you'd prefer this to cabernet."

Will tips the liquid back and swallows half in one shot.

"You presumed correctly."

This close, Hannibal can take in the finer details of Will's appearance. The resident facial hair that seems only half-thought out, the smudged circles beneath downcast eyes, the rumpled collar of a plaid shirt speckled with dog hair. Glasses, worn at the edges. He is every bit the sleep-deprived loner he suggests he is, but Hannibal knows that is not all.

He connects their eyes and brings his glass to his lips. The whiskey burns pleasantly on the way down and for a moment it's the only thing occupying his senses. But when Will looks away and moves to finish off his own tumbler, Hannibal leans in ever so slightly and inhales.

Will smells like thunderstorms.

He brushes past Hannibal and places his glass on the desk.

"Why did you stop being a surgeon, Dr. Lecter?"

Hannibal remains where he is, bourbon forgotten.

"I killed someone."

Will's eyes flash.

"I would think that comes with the job."

"It was," he begins, free hand drifting down to settle in his pocket. Around the scalpel. "It was one life too many."

Will hums. Stands there.

"I saw it again. The watcher."

Will rounds the desk, drifts towards the fireplace. He pauses before it and gazes into the flames, his back to Hannibal and the rest of the room. His voice is quiet when he speaks the next words.

"I wasn't asleep."

Hannibal moves away from the ladder.

"I was in the field outside my house. I usually walk my dogs in the morning, but I was alone this time."

Hannibal places his nearly full glass on the wood next to the empty one.

"It had just rained and it was still sort of drizzling. Some lightning far off but most of it had already passed. The kind of weather where you can still feel the electricity in your bones."

Hannibal slides the blade into his sleeve, takes a soft step past the desk.

"So I was in the middle of the field, the middle of nowhere, and I heard a step behind me."

Hannibal pauses, but Will doesn't react.

"Not a human step, something smaller. More like," he laughs, rubs at the back of his neck, "a dog. I thought one of my dogs had followed me out there. So I turn around and I'm ready to see Winston or one of them holding a stick for me to throw but it's the thing, it's the watcher, and it's standing there less than three feet away and it's staring at me."

Hannibal is steps away and he can see how easy it would be to raise his arm and plunge the metal into Will's neck. How quickly the younger man would slump to the floor, bleed out. Reap the consequences of his deceit and keep Hannibal's secrets forever.

"And then it looked me straight in the eyes and spoke."

Will turns on him in a blink, locking their eyes with an intensity rivaling Hannibal's thoughts. The firelight casts flickering shadows across his cheekbones and his irises are golden in the flames.

Hannibal can't look away.

"What," he finds himself speaking, arm limp at his side. "What did it say?"

Will's voice is as solemn as it is certain.

" _Repent_."


	3. The Third Visit

Hannibal completes the final kill of his trinity the next night.

Morgan Hall, a pianist unremarkable in life and only marginally less so in death, screams as he slices her open. The sedatives wore off some time ago, and re-dosing her now would only spoil the meat.

She babbles and bubbles blood when he pries open her chest cavity and dips his hands inside. She's young, healthy, and no part of her should go to waste.

He thinks of Will as he works, of the steel in his eyes and the knowing twist of his lips. His watcher, now Hannibal's too.

He imagines it's Will's lungs he severs, pulls from a thrashing torso. Will's moans that plead for mercy, a beautiful and dissonant melody. He imagines Will would grin through the pain. Maybe even help guide the knife through his own aortic wall, lick the blood off his fingers afterwards.

Hannibal would press his mouth to the pulsing muscle of Will's heart and consume him alive.

Will would watch, fiery eyes sparkling all the while.

* * *

The Virginia woods loom outside his windshield as Hannibal guides the car to a halt along their border. He shuts off the engine.

On the other side of the road, a wide and barren field stretches into the night. Will Graham's address.

Hannibal gets out of the car but leaves the headlights on.

He removes his tools and the remains of Morgan Hall from the trunk and hauls them across the pavement. Wheat grass and ice crunch under his boots as he crosses the clearing, moves further and further from the car until the light is barely enough to see by.

Hannibal hammers the first stake into the ground. He binds the second stake perpendicular to it, secures them together with rope. Suspending the hollowed remnants of Ms. Hall takes more time. He ties her wrists parallel to the ground, binds her neck to the support post. Allows her head to bow towards the dirt. He leaves her legs to hang, toes curling down.

It's with care that he peels apart the incision dividing her torso. Replaces the damp, empty space with straw. He spends even greater care in stitching her back together. Sews each slit with the neatest loops he can manage in winter gloves. He embellishes beyond the necessary cuts, decorates each joint with a ring of stitches. Threads the needle beneath her eyelids and along the seam of her lips. As a finishing touch, he covers each eye with a round black button and pins them to her flesh.

He runs hands across her patchwork pelt and steps back to assess his work, the sentry he has raised to pass judgment.

His breath is foggy white.

When the final adjustments have been made, Hannibal kneels and reaches into the cooler beside him. He removes each organ, one-by-one, and places them at the base of the display. All that he would usually take, he'll leave here.

An offering.

The grass rustles behind him.

Eight figures wait.

They stand between him and the road, silhouetted canid creatures blurring between headlights and the dark. Sixteen penlight eyes peer out from the night. Static crackles across Hannibal's skin.

He remains kneeling on the ground and shifts only to face the watcher head-on.

It stares back, closer to him than any of the others, defying form even now. It ripples like pitch-black smoke as it creeps forward. Silent, steady, taking in everything he has done. Until it swells upwards and curls over him in one fell swoop, blotting all else from his vision.

From inches away its eyes bore into his, and it reeks of rot and thunder.

* * *

Hannibal cancels his 5:30 appointment, then his 6:30 one after that. Mrs. Marlow is understanding when he offers the story of a patient emergency and his professional obligation to assist in whatever way he can. She praises his care and compassion before he bids her good evening and hangs up the phone.

He finds he has little patience for mundanities today.

Hannibal spends the twilight hours drawing. He sketches out the scene from memory, his pencil skating across the paper to capture fabric folds and musculature. Shapes elevate as he blocks in value with crosshatching, ventures a careful smudge here and there to interrupt the harsh line-work and complement the curves of flesh and fangs. In between, he sharpens the graphite tip with his scalpel and brushes pencil shavings into the trash.

Night falls gradually. Streetlamps flicker to life as dusk darkens the street outside his office, and they cast long shadows through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He doesn't bother turning on the lights, content to work solely by his small desk lamp and the glow from the fireplace.

He observes the hands on his watch tick towards 7:30.

When the time comes, Hannibal lays the pencil down and stands.

The waiting room is empty.

He pushes his sleeve back and double-checks the watch face, but it reads the same. He stands in the open doorway and waits a minute. Then he waits another two. The watch hands tick past 7:34.

Hannibal frowns and closes the door _._

Will is leaning over his desk, gaze fixed on Hannibal's drawing.

"Sorry I'm late, the dogs held me up."

Hannibal's fingers tighten over the door handle before he forces them to relax. He exhales.

"It's quite alright, Will."

"My hour, I can spend it however I wish?"

The tone of the other man's voice is teasing, and Hannibal finds himself magnetized towards it. Will doesn't look up from the sketch as he approaches.

"Something like that."

Hannibal stops at the front of the desk, glances at Will leaning over the chair on the other side, then walks around. He stands so their shoulders are side-by-side and looks down as well.

"A rendition of the Gustave Doré original. It depicts a scene from the sixth canto of _The Inferno_ , the feeding of Cerberus. Virgil casts earth into the creature's maw to satiate its endless gluttony, and by doing so, allows Dante further passage into the Underworld."

Will scoffs. "Dirt is a poor substitute for souls."

Hannibal grins.

"Be that as it may, I still find the image particularly striking. In Roman mythology, Aeneas and Psyche were able to pass with a gift of honey cakes instead."

Will twists to rest against the desk, looks up. He curls both hands over the edge of the wood, leans forward, and returns Hannibal's grin.

"Seems like a monster that's pretty easy to please."

"We are all monsters seeking pleasure, in our own ways."

Will runs his tongue over his bottom lip, contemplative. "Are you suggesting people are fundamentally monstrous, Dr. Lecter?"

Hannibal tracks the movement of the other man's mouth, echoes it with his own. He places a hand on the desk next to Will and pushes the other into his pocket.

"Merely that we all have the capacity to be so. Some of us more than others."

"And we're all looking for pleasure," Will adds.

"Sometimes in monstrous ways," Hannibal agrees.

Will tilts his head. His glasses are gone and his curls are slicked back, tucked behind his ears rather than hanging over his forehead. Hannibal rakes his eyes across the midnight blue button-down that fits the other man just right, snug across the shoulders and tapering at the waist. He's surprised, even with all he knows, how much different this Will looks. Suave and dangerous.

Hannibal wants to sink his teeth in and never let go.

Then he notices a dog hair.

It gives Hannibal an excuse to move his hand from the desk _and touch_ , so he takes it. He plucks the hair off the fabric, right above Will's heart, and lifts it between his thumb and index finger. Hannibal raises an eyebrow.

Will busts out laughing.

He covers his mouth with a palm to muffle it, but his other hand flies to Hannibal's shoulder for support.

"Oh god, I can never get it off completely." Will wipes at the corner of his eyes and shrugs, but his fingers dig in where they've caught Hannibal. The older man resists the urge to cover them with his own.

"I could recommend a good dry cleaner," is what he says instead.

Will shakes his head. "It would be a waste."

He pushes off the desk and further into their shared space, lets go of Hannibal's shoulder to pinch the dog hair from his grip. Will places it on the desk beside the drawing. It rests against the edge of the paper, curves towards a snarling head. It's blacker than Hannibal's darkest pencil marks.

Will regards the sketch again. His face is smooth, expression soft in the firelight.

"Did your watcher find its repentance?"

A quiet hiss, movement outside the windows, and Hannibal's eyes flit to the glass. It's only the rippling of branches, but the road has grown dark. Streetlamps out. Everything beyond the desk is shrouded in shadow.

Will traces over the drawing with a fingertip. He lingers over the beast's fangs, smudges the point of one until its razor tip has dulled, and taps lightly against the paper.

"I think so," he says. Considers. "For now."

Hannibal thinks of cold Virginia fields and scarecrows.

Of harvest gods and sacrifice.

His fingers curl around the other man's wrist before he can stop himself.

"Would you care to join me for dinner, Will?"

Will stares at where the fingers circle his skin. His gaze travels up Hannibal's arm, across his shoulder, over his mouth. To his eyes.

Another sound at the window, but Hannibal ignores it.

Will's lips part, and his teeth are bright and sharp.

"I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

 **A/N: I tried to write this without being too straight-forward because I firmly believe that makes for better tension/horror, but if you want confirmation, read on:**

 **If the obligatory reference to Dante and Cerberus didn't tell all, I based the idea for this story around various folklores of black dogs/hellhounds. A very common legend is that seeing one (or hearing one) at least three times means you're marked for death. So I tried to mirror this in the story's formatting (3 chapters, 3 scenes per chapter, 3 visits from Will). I combined this with another inspiration from the Nag Hammadi Codex, namely the line: "The one who carries bread with him on the road, the black dogs kill because of the bread." (except the bread is people in this case lol)**

 **Now I think I'm going to write a sequel to this, so I don't want to elaborate on too much more. I'll leave what exactly Will is purposefully vague, but he does have seven supernatural doggies that crave human flesh and he loves them very much (and Winston is still his favorite).**

 **Anyways, thanks for reading! Hannibal will feed any reviews to Will and his dogs. ;)**


End file.
